Catch Me
by FlopsyOllie
Summary: Maybe she is just drawn to people who will hurt her. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe every boy she ever meets will leave her in the dust, including the man who raised her." -- Crellie friendship-ish and a special guest. Kinda


**Catch Me**

_I'm not sure where this came from. I just know I really, really want to go to Dennys. Enjoy!_

_- // -_

The diner smells like maple syrup and burnt sugar. At three in the morning, the place is fairly empty. Only a few strange souls are scattered around the room, silent and within themselves. A few truck drivers, a woman who looks like she is about to fall asleep into her waffles, a toddler playing with his cereal in the seat next to her.

She stares down at her cup of black coffee, shredding yet another napkin in her hands. A little pile of white is growing next to her. They tear apart so easily, as if she is holding nothing at all. She doesn't know why she finds this so fascinating. Maybe so she won't have to think about whatever she is running from.

She isn't exactly sure where she is. Not in Toronto, that's for sure. Not in Canada, either. Somewhere in upstate New York maybe. She remembers crossing the border. The officers had searched her car, and it had annoyed her because she was in a hurry to get away. If she was carrying a bomb, she wouldn't be stupid enough to hide it in her trunk. She can't remember much after that. It was like she had fell away inside herself, somehow continuing to drive. Maybe she had fallen asleep. After she had returned from her comatose, she pulled over at the first stop she could find. A diner.

The napkin crumples into her hand, joining the pile with the rest. The black nail polish is chipping on her fingers. Isn't she too old to still be wearing something so… high school? What do normal, adult women wear for nail polish?

Screw them, she thinks, biting her lip. She'll wear whatever she fucking wants. She always has.

Her mother hated that. Hated her individuality. "Please, Eleanor. You look like a vampire." Her father didn't care; he wasn't home. Why should it be his problem? He never had to look at his daughter much, maybe only once a year, and then he was too busy fussing over her and failing at making up for lost time to really care about the shirt she was wearing or the rips in her jeans.

He had promised her so many things. They would go fishing together. Play baseball. Do whatever fathers and daughters do. But everything seemed to fall through. Something about his job took him away. The one thing he ever really did for her was teach her how to play the drums when she was ten. She had given up on them soon after, because he left for a military base to train new recruits.

She started playing again after she'd gotten a crush on a certain guitar player, and that whole mess had exploded right in her face. Somehow, it seems like she can trace all of her problems back to her parents. If she had never learned to play the drums, she never would've had her heart broken so spectacularly. Of course, that's her own fault, isn't it? She should know by now not to trust anyone with something as fragile as her heart. Marco, Sean, her father, her mother. Maybe she is just drawn to people who will hurt her. Maybe it's fate. Maybe every boy she ever meets will leave her in the dust, including the man who raised her. He's the biggest heartbreaker of them all.

The bell on the front door chimes as another customer enters, bringing the cold night air with them. The room barely stirs. She keeps her eyes on her hands, sending paper snowflakes plummeting to the tabletop.

Someone sits down across from her. He orders bacon and eggs, over easy, with a fresh cup of coffee for both of them. He smells like mint and boy sweat, and his voice makes her want to either kiss him or slit her wrists. She can't decide.

"So. Why New York?"

She shrugs. The motion sends hair cascading down over her shoulders. When was the last time she brushed it? "I don't know anyone here."

He smiles. The fresh coffee is set down in front of them. Her old cup is cold, still full to the brim. As she reaches for another napkin, she notices his eyes on her. It makes her feel uncomfortable and safe and angry all at once.

"How did you find me?"

"Saw you leaving. Followed you down."

"You're a little late," she has been sitting here alone for over an hour.

"There was a line at the border. Besides, I couldn't be too close behind. You might've noticed."

She thinks of her blackouts through most of the drive here and shivers. Maybe he should've followed closer. He could've stopped her from driving of a cliff. Or at least waved goodbye, maybe called the morgue. She could forever sleep in a pretty little box; a permanent blackout. She would never have to think about anything again. She wouldn't be killing so many trees by wasting all these napkins.

"Maybe I want to be alone."

"Too bad. I want company."

"There's plenty of company at home," she says, seeing the stubble on his chin and the bags under his eyes. Why would he come all this way for her? Waste all this sleep? She feels like she has been holding up the Earth for days, but can't close her eyes.

"I'm picky. I was looking for the redhead, sarcastic, blunt kind of company."

She looks away. The waitress sets down his plate of food and asks her for the fourth time if she wants anything. She shakes her head, even though she doesn't think she's eaten since yesterday morning. She isn't hungry.

He takes a forkful of eggs, chews thoughtfully, swallows, "I just don't think you should be alone right now."

"Why. Do you think I'm going to kill myself too?"

"Ellie. Your dad…" he trails off, unsure of what to say. She stares at her reflection in the dark liquid.

She used to think about killing herself when she was younger. When she was still cutting; when she was depressed. She even almost drowned herself once, when… Now she doesn't think she'll ever consider it again. It hurts too much, being on the receiving end. She'd go to hell for sure, for putting so many people through this pain.

This hurts worse than cutting ever did. Worse than her mother drinking, worse than Sean leaving her, and worse than Craig ripping out her heart over and over again. This is something entirely different. Something a knife or a bottle of vodka will never cure.

People with post traumatic stress disorder sometimes try to kill themselves. All of the websites said that. She hadn't paid it any heed. He was in the hospital. He was _getting better_…

She should've known. She knows how easy it is to hide struggle with progress. People just take it as little mistakes, nothing to worry over. Everyone thought she stopped cutting when Paige found out, but that was a lie. She hadn't really stopped until her freshman year of college, when she finally decided it was time to move on. Maybe her father had been lying to everyone. Maybe he thought he couldn't get better, so he decided to quit.

But why would he leave her behind? After all the promises…

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Okay. But take it from someone who's lost _both_ their parents. As much as you think you want to be alone, you're lying. Being alone makes it worse."

"It's always worked before," a lump rises in her throat. She tries to swallow it back down, but it won't go away.

"Until now, right?"

A tear slides down and lands in her coffee. It shatters her reflection, sending ripples all through her face. It takes her a minute to realize she's the one who's crying. She's not suppose to cry.

His hands reach across the table and hold hers. She's shaking. Garbled sounds escape quietly from her throat; sobbing, choking noises.

Yesterday, her mother cried. She had gotten the phone call and cried. It had been 10:32 when she told her.

She doesn't remember, but she thinks she threw up. Then she grabbed her jacket and car keys, jumped into her car, and drove. She drove and drove, erasing each moment from her memory. If she kept driving, she wouldn't have to face everything behind her. She would only move forward. Forward, towards new places, towards strangers she didn't know. By staying in motion, she didn't have to think about him or anyone else. She could pretend it all wasn't real. He was off in Afghanistan again. He didn't have PTSD. He didn't shoot himself in the head. He was still alive and breathing.

But now he isn't. The lies don't work anymore. She is sitting in a diner somewhere bawling her eyes out. This is real. This is really happening.

He gets up and sits next to her in the booth, hiding her between himself and the wall and holding her close. He rubs her back in tiny circles, and hands her napkins. She wipes away the moisture, trying to breathe again.

"You're right. This would suck even more alone."

He smiles, still not letting go of her. His arms, finally around her again, feel good, "It gets better."

"Thanks for coming."

"Anytime," she thinks he must mean this, because it's the middle of the night and they're at least five hours from home. If she decides to run away again and he needs to follow, she'll make sure it's in daylight, "You hungry?"

She tries to smile a little. Underneath all of the hurt and saltwater, her stomach is growling. He is a good person to bring when running away, she decides. A good person to have around when needing to be comforted. He will take care of her. Maybe he never hurt her on purpose. Did anyone? Maybe it was all unintentional. A mistake. Mistakes need to be forgiven. Life goes on. It must, or else she wouldn't be sitting here. She would be dead too. Everyone would be dead.

She is still alive, even if he isn't.

"I'm starving."

- // -


End file.
